You saints are the ocean of spiritual freedom, the storehouse of liberation. Before you, what can a dull mind offer in words? Why should the masters of nectar drink mere water? Before the blaze of a billion suns, the firefly is nothing. What can I say before you? You are all wish-fulfilling gems, forests of wish-fulfilling trees. Before you, what can a fly accomplish by running? You are like the holy field of Varanasi where the Ganga flows in delight. What significance has the Konkan coast beside that? Who can quench the ocean's own thirst, that which slakes the thirst of the whole world? The plateau of Mount Meru covers the whole earth, yet a gnat can grasp only a fistful. Before a lion, what is the jackal's roar? Beside a string of pearls, what is glass? Should one apply sandalwood paste to camphor? Should one wave a lamp before the sun? You are solid blocks of wisdom; what right have I to speak before you? O treasure of compassion, you have made me speak. I have gladly served your cause. I am an ignorant child who calls himself small. It is yours to nourish me. Forgive my babbling; do not be angry. You saints are my mother and father. Says Tuka, in fear I have grasped your feet, O ocean of mercy.